


Saboteurs

by Bool_Ji



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cyberpunk, M/M, Marriage, Professional Criminal AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: In the 2070s, it’s hard to do an honest day’s work. Jesse McCree has foregone being honest entirely, a choice that has brought him to the heart of Japan. And it is there his eyes are opened by a man in the shadows.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2016 Overwatch Big Bang. This fic fought me every step of the way of its creation, but it's finally here. 
> 
> The Archivist drew not one, but SIX pieces of art for this fic. You can see them here (though be wary of spoilers towards the bottom): http://hellomynameisandiam.tumblr.com/post/154688625127/jesse-mccrees-life-changes-forever-when-he-finds

Jesse McCree’s life changes forever when he finds the man climbing the side of the building.

He tips his hat, removing his lit cigar. “Howdy.”

The four green lenses of the man’s night vision goggles stare at him owlishly. “Good evening,” he says, bowing slightly, and continues to scale past the 27th floor. No ropes to catch him. Only gecko-skin gloves and boots.

McCree gazes over Hanamura, neon lights and glowing holograms like jewels adorning the body of a reclining goddess. He takes a long drag of his smoke. Blows it toward the stars. Then goes inside.

\- - -

Jesse isn’t one to judge another based on their hobbies. He’s the last person to do that. Yet he’s also an intrigue bloodhound, and this smells ripe.

He puts out the cigar before the hotel’s digital maid can chastise him, sprawls on the Western style couch, and picks up his tablet. It greets him with a leering white skull. He presses his palm to the holographic screen, offers his eye to a retina scan. Only then does it unlock its tools.

“Hey, Meido-chan?”

The maid flashes into existence, her combination French-frills-and-Japanese-kimono a brilliant pearl in the darkness. She bows much lower than the man climbing the side of the building. “How may I serve you?” Her English is flawless, flavored with just enough accent to be endearing.

McCree fixes her in the tablet’s camera. “Say cheese.”

“Chee-ee-ee _ee_ - _ee_ \--” Her image flickers. Lines of numbers, symbols, and letters rip long seams in her body. She doesn’t struggle as her form becomes increasingly distorted until she finally disappears.

Jesse feels a little bad. Always does. He sates himself with the fact that the maid service is nothing more than a program. Ones and zeroes. It doesn’t feel pain.

And it makes an excellent mask.

Now that he’s in, the entire system is at his disposal. It’s an unholy hour of the night. All the self-respecting protection is tending to the hotel ballroom. No one will be paying attention to the waitstaff.

He guides his hijacked maid to the security cameras. She flutters from one to another like a moth, peering into the eye holes. Not here. Not there either. She scurries higher, sailing through floors on silken wings.

_There_. She spies a ghost on the 33rd floor.

McCree smirks. Surveillance and cloaking devices have run the Red Queen’s race for decades: sprinting as fast as they can to out-compete the other, they end up remaining in the same place. Luckily, the hotel’s cameras seem to have the upper hand. Lesser equipment would see an empty service corridor. Instead, there is a man-shaped patch of distorted air trotting away from him.

The maid gives chase, leaping from camera to camera and keeping the intruder in her sight. McCree scans him. No phone, no tablet, but ah! _That’s_ interesting. His night vision goggles are set to record what he sees. It takes only a few keystrokes for Jesse to dig into its program.

McCree clears his throat and turns on the tablet’s microphone.

\- - -

With a shower of petals and confetti, the maid, set to appear as a big-headed, bug-eyed caricature of a human being, flashes peace signs in front of a cartoon Mount Fuji. “ _Konnichiwa_!”

Hanzo Shimada nearly screams.

Ripping the goggles off, he raises his arm to smash them against the ground when he gets hold of himself. He needs them. The guts of the hotel are pitch black, let alone the ballroom below. The goggles are key to his mission. And now they’re compromised. Snarling in the dark, he puts them back on. “When I find you,” he says, “I will kill you.”

The maid pouts. Fuji does too. “Well that ain’t very nice,” she says, “I’m just tryin’ to be social. Ain’t every day you see a guy doin’ his best mountain goat impression.”

Hanzo’s fists clench white. _Him_. “I know your room. I will come for you, and I will make it slow and painful.”

The maid giggles. “I ain’t a masochist, sugar, but the first part sure sounds nice.”

_Fuck_. Fuck him, fuck the goggles, fuck the world, fuck everything. He will not let an eavesdropping idiot get in the way. Hanzo considers his options again. Carefully. Are the goggles really that important?

No, they are not. He moves to take them off.

“Yer here for the drive.”

_Ignore him_ , Hanzo thinks, _He is nothing more than a fly. The longer you listen to him, the closer the police draw_. Against his better judgement, he says, “Who is _not_ here for the drive?”

“You gotta point,” the maid replies, “But most of ‘em paid a pretty penny fer a convention ticket and hotel room, like myself. I’m gonna guess the only person here to _steal_ the drive is _you_. And that’s mighty interestin’, darlin’, because that means the thing is just as valuable as I thought. Who’re you workin’ for?”

“I work alone.”

“I kin make it worth yer while to give the drive to me. As you can pro’lly tell, I’m a computer guy. Do you even know what’s _on_ the drive?”

Hanzo hesitates. “It does not matter. One way or another, it will make me rich.”

“One of those ways include workin’ together? Think about it, friend. Say the word and I’ll make this like takin’ candy from a baby.”

Hanzo scoffs, dropping his hands to his sides. “This is already too easy.” He does not take off the goggles.

McCree withdraws, piloting the maid back into the web of cameras, relinquishing his hold on Hanzo’s vision. As he watches the concealed burglar pick his way through dark hallways, Jesse’s vaguely aware of the smile on his face. “And they say there ain’t honor among thieves.” Dragging a pillow under his spine, he cracks his knuckles and observes.

\- - -

The hotel has two aspects working against it. One: in a bid to make guests feel clean and comfortable, the air is constantly brought in from outdoors and filtered free of Hanamura’s smoggy scents. Two: the management is not current with action movie tropes. Some underpaid salaryman looked at the vent system and thought to himself: _no one is bold enough,_ crazy _enough, to climb up the side of the building, pry off a grate, and slither through dozens of feet of burning hot or freezing cold pipe_.

Hanzo is not anyone. Though he takes heed to be gentler with the interior grate. He cuts through the screws, wriggles on his belly far enough to draw the panel inside.

The ballroom is set up for the presentation tomorrow. A cross-shaped stage in the center is surrounded by a sea of chairs. The hologram projectors are mute warts on the ceiling. In the middle of it all is a tall case. Inside it: the prize. The room is dark and quiet.

It reminds McCree of a mausoleum. And, like a tomb, it has phantoms. “You readin’ those?”

The night vision goggles reveal a maze of red lines locking the case inside an infrared prison from floor to ceiling.

“Unless you kin shrink to the size of a mole,” he continues, “This is where the buck stops, hun. Those tripwires are low-tech. Motion sensitive. Too stupid to hack.”

Hanzo crawls onto the wall. Sizes up his opposition. “Ye of little faith,” he murmurs, and detaches one gecko-glove long enough to slide his left sleeve down.

Nothing happens. At least, nothing Jesse can detect from a camera. He dives back into Hanzo’s sight -- and is blinded by an array of millions of tiny lights, iridescent, energetic blue, traveling in swarm clouds, predatory star clusters, birthing themselves from Hanzo’s skin in response to their master’s whispered command.

“ _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau_.”

The serpentine invaders dive for the sources of the tripwires, sink inside the plastic casing, and, one-by-one, each red gleam burns out. Hanzo descends to the floor. His mighty, minuscule army regroups and buries itself in his flesh.

“Nanite implants,” McCree says, when he finds his voice, “Those are _expensive_. Who’d you say you are again?”

Hanzo smirks. Cutting through the glass case, he cradles the drive in his palms.

Half a second later, the pressure sensor underneath triggers. The entire ballroom explodes in a cacophony of noise, sirens blaring, lights flooding blinding fire.

Hanzo clutches the drive close to his breast, tucking it next to his heart. “Shit!”

“You ain’t _that_ bad,” Jesse replies. He can hear the alarms from his room. Sitting up straight, he withdraws into the security system, gives a locked door a virtual kick. “Out out out out _out_!”

Hanzo bolts.

As soon as he is gone, McCree leaps to his feet, turns off his tablet, shoves it into his pocket. He goes to the bathroom, musses his hair, buttons his shirt unevenly. Puts on his hat and his best scowl. The hotel staff are in for some American hospitality.

\- - -

As befitting a 21st century deity, Hanamura’s streets are just as beautiful as its skyline. Most residences are closed this time of night, but a 24/7 food stall nestled in an unassuming alleyway gleams gentle amber light. Staffed by a single robotic chef, who dutifully polishes glasses, the tiny restaurant is deserted.

Jesse, walking aimlessly for the past half hour, has half a mind to grab one of its four seats. What decides for him are four green lenses at the far end of the alley.

Hanzo, perched casually atop a traffic control box, fixes him in a stare, the drive cupped in his hand.

McCree’s throat is suddenly dry. He freezes in place, shows his palms.

Hanzo cocks his head toward the stand.

Jesse obeys, settling in a chair.

The thief saunters over and sits beside him, every motion graceful and deliberate. He sets the drive on the counter. Takes off the goggles. Smooths his hair back in place. “ _Watashi ni biru o onegaishimasu_ ,” he says.

The chef starts to pour.

“Turn it off.”

Swallowing the toad in his throat, Jesse retrieves his tablet. It takes only a flick of his fingers to disable the chef. The robot jerks and spasms, programming fighting McCree’s influence, then freezing in place. Hanzo stands, plucks his beer from its hack-locked fingers, and gives Jesse a cold stare.

“It looks bad, don’t it,” McCree explains, “Always does. Don’t think too much of it. Just lines of code pretending to be human.”

Hanzo contemplates this silently, sipping his drink. He taps the drive. “What does this do.”

Jesse knows a command when he hears it. “Ultra high-speed data acquisition. Imagine you got a new tablet and you wanna fill it with readin’ material. Using this thing, you could download the entire Library of Congress in five minutes.” Hanzo continues to stare at him. He continues, “I wasn’t gonna steal it. Just wanted to see what it could do so I could build my own.”

Satisfactory enough. The thief turns his attention to the tiny hologram screen in the corner of the stand. It shows a recap of a baseball game, ant-sized players running around a diamond blue field. “A homegrown hacker?”

“I had a teacher a long time ago, but some things you learn by doin’, and there ain’t no way around it.” He offers his hand. “Jesse McCree. If yer gonna kill me, I’d like to at least know yer name.”

The thief frowns. Reluctantly shakes his hand. “Shimada Hanzo. I am not going to kill you.”

“Why’s that?”

“I suspect you were the one who delayed the police from arriving at the hotel.”

The hacker cracks a small smile. “Scrambled the security alarm between half a dozen businesses in the area. An oldie, but a goodie.”

“You believe there is honor among thieves?”

“Honor’s up to the individual. But since you ain’t workin’ for a corporation, you didn’t kill me, and you have good taste in booze, I’m gonna guess yer a decent person.” Jesse pushes the drive toward Hanzo. “Ya stole it fair ‘n square, so it’s yers. Just give it some thought before you sell it or throw it out to sea or somethin’. That thing’s a game changer. Don’t want it fallin’ into the wrong hands.”

Shimada raises an eyebrow, scowl deepening. “The line between good and evil is a blurred one. None can be trusted, save the self.”

“Well, I’m gonna walk away, and I don’t think yer gonna shoot me in the back. Call it a hunch.” McCree hesitates. When Hanzo doesn’t reply, he gets up, pushes the chair in behind him. “I’m leavin’ for America tomorrow. That was a good heist, pardner. I’ll look for it in the papers.”

The thief takes a long sip. “A good heist.”

Each step is tense. His muscles feel like glass -- one bullet could more than easily destroy him. Yet Jesse rounds the corner of the alley, back onto bigger streets with houses that stand guard over gunshots, unmolested. He returns to the hotel safely, to catch a few hours of shuteye before his flight.

\- - -

And that is that. End of story. McCree sips his coffee in the Narita Airport terminal, checks the news on his tablet, and waits for his plane to be ready. After an eight hour flight, he goes home, fights off jet lag, has supper, and turns in early to get his internal clock on track.

Except. The man who sits next to him is dressed more for a different sort of runway, short eyelashes coated in kohl, hair smooth and loose. He doesn’t look at Jesse when he speaks. “I am going with you.”

McCree doesn’t initially respond, frog lodged too tight in his throat for words. Finally he coughs, sniffles, flips onto a new webpage. “Is that so.”

“You are right. The drive is powerful. But I do not know how to use it.”

“So yer proposin’ a partnership?”

“Technically speaking, you called me partner first.”

“Hm.” _When you’re right, you’re right_ , Jesse thinks. “That was just a figure of speech.”

“Yet consider if it was not. Hackers are, by definition, criminal. The emphasis on cyber-security leaves many valuable institutions prone to physical infiltration, which is my expertise. And it is proven that we work well together. Our abilities combined will allow us to achieve greater goals than separated.”

McCree mulls this over for a moment. Takes another slug of hot latte. “All right. But what’s the real reason yer here?”

Hanzo huffs. “The heist was, as they say, ballsy. I need to lie low. And you, a man I know next to nothing about, are a safer bet than even my own kind.”

Jesse chuckles for the first time that morning. “Why didn’t you say so? I kin let you crash at my place for a while. It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but you’ll like it.”

“The Taj Mahal is a tomb. It was built in honor of a dead princess.”

“Well, my place kin house a live one.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. McCree hides his smile in his cup.

\- - -

Santa Fe, New Mexico has made a powerful effort to resist intense urbanization. Where Los Angeles, Miami, and New York City are sprawling mats of sun-swallowing spires, The City Different is a nest of bumblebees. The pueblos stand taller, the old rail tracks are long torn up and recycled, but there is not a hint of chrome on the buildings, no advertisements glaring into the night. The sky is blue and rich with clouds, the air hot and thick with the scent of desert blooms.

Hanzo has never been here before. He isn’t sure he likes it. Unable to sleep on the plane, he is jet lagged, bleary, and far too warm. He shed his coat and drapes it over one shoulder, the other hand dragging his suitcase behind him. The elevator in McCree’s apartment building isn’t working, which means hauling it up five flights of stairs.

He spots the couch, leaves his baggage on the floor, and takes in Jesse’s home from the comfort of a cushion. The apartment is modest, with few pieces of furniture: an armchair, a table with one chair in the meager kitchen, a glimpse of a forest green bed. A sturdy desk carrying three large computer screens, all black and dormant.

Jesse McCree, who can sleep anywhere, smirks at his companion. “Make yerself at home, I guess. Don’t know what you were expectin’. A bunker out in the desert? Secret lair in the sewers? No, sir. Wanna hide a tree? Put it in a forest.”

The building is plump and well-tread with people. Were all of them on phones or tablets? So ubiquitous are the devices, Hanzo didn’t notice.

Jesse sits at the desk and turns on the console underneath with a fingerprint-secured button. It purrs to life in a matter of seconds, screens blossoming white. His wallpaper, stretching across all three, depicts a herd of wild horses at full gallop. “Don’t mind me,” he says, fingers flying across the keyboard, “Just gonna check up on work stuff.”

“Work stuff,” Hanzo repeats.

“Yeah. Gonna rob a bank.”

Shimada thinks for a moment. Yawns. Squirms more comfortably. “Very well.”

The next time McCree looks at him, he’s asleep, lips parted and one arm crooked beneath his head. Jesse smiles and taps the keys softly.

Hanzo wakes up five hours later. The blanket covering him is the green of jungles, soft as petals. Jesse is still working at his computer when Shimada stands, cloth draped around him, and watches over his shoulder.

McCree smiles, peering up at him. “First Bank of the Lake,” he explains, “Not a country-wide chain, but plenty of locations ‘round the Southwest. Got some pretty heavy security around their customers’ identities. Could get to ‘em eventually, chippin’ away at their firewalls till I made a hole big enough. Or I could ask you to break into their sub-basement, take the servers out of their cushy lil’ nests, and I’ll handle the rest. How good are ya at safe-crackin’?”

“My dragons are clever.”

“Good. Yer dragons hungry? I make a mean sandwich.”

Hanzo _is_ hungry after subsisting on nothing but airplane pretzels. The earnest desire to please on Jesse’s face seals the deal. He smirks. “No mustard.”

“Roger that, pardner.”

\- - -

The heist goes flawlessly. So smooth, so easy is the operation that Hanzo makes a slight detour before returning to the apartment. McCree is waiting for him, a grin on his face, glasses of champagne in his hands.

“How’s it feel bein’ five million dollars richer?”

Hanzo, beaming, withdraws the brick of cash secreted in his shirt, plucks the band free, and runs the pile of bills under his thumb. “ _Good_. My past employers did not pay me nearly enough for far more dangerous work.”

“Well, that’s the benefit of havin’ a partner ‘stead of a boss.” Jesse offers him a delicate glass stem.

The thief takes it, holds it high. “Support your local bank robbers.”

The hacker’s laughter is warm and bright as he lifts his own glass. “I’ll drink to that, darlin’!”

They drink in unison. McCree partakes until the fizz threatens his gag reflex. Hanzo leaves his pinky out, watching him over the rim, and sips delicately. “Darling,” he says.

It’s a tone of voice both dangerous and alluring. An ancient, jeweled artifact held in the mouth of a cursed idol. Jesse can’t help but smile. Caught hook, line, and sinker. “You’ve done a great deal fer me. That makes you darlin’ in my eyes. What am I to you?”

Hanzo considers for a moment, then sets the glass down. He pads past the hacker into his bedroom. Jesse follows him like a dog on a leash.

“I do not know,” Shimada says, “Convince me.”

McCree has to swallow a cannonball before he can even think of a witty reply. “Here’s the thing about my line of business, honey. I kin make yer wildest dreams come true. Barrin’ that, I’m obligin’ of most kinks, so long as there’s no blood, no tears, and I don’t wake up two states over.”

A light chuckle, a black eyebrow quirked. “You are a strange man.”

“Another thing about my line of business: I see a lot of weird porn.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, and lifts up his shirt, and Jesse closes the bedroom door.

\- - -

He wakes up to morning light sneaking past the slits in his blinds. Grumbling, McCree rolls onto his back. Damp, wrinkled hundreds crinkle beneath him, dotting the blankets like bedbugs. His mouth is sour with hours-old alcohol. There’s a weight sitting heavy inside his brow. There’s a patch of drool on the pillow beside him.

Five million dollars. He smiles at the thought, squirms deliciously against the sheets. His bladder reminds him to get up, and once that is settled, he moves to the kitchen for some breakfast. _Sausage last night, sausage in the morning_ , he thinks--

The Ethernet cords wrap around his neck and squeeze his windpipe shut. They are only made of rubber tubing and copper wire but the grip that holds them is stronger than iron. Jesse gasps a final breath, arms flailing. Behind him, teeth bared in a feral snarl, Hanzo stands firm. He counts the seconds, avoiding windmilling limbs, waiting until the hacker’s wheezing bubbles toward silence.

“Where is the money.”

Not a question. Another command. The pressure lets up enough for a silver of air, which McCree greedily drinks. “A safe place,” he heaves.

Hanzo pulls the cords tight. Jesse tries to take a step; the thief hauls him back by the makeshift noose. “I cannot think of a safer place than my accounts,” he growls.

When the tears pooling in McCree’s eyes turn fat and desperate, the pressure releases just slightly. “Defense of Indigenous Peoples Fund.” His voice is a harsh sob. “Aid to communities with few resources. Givin’ to those who have next t’ nothin’.” It’s a gamble. He adds, “Ain’t you got a heart?”

Dark veins creep at the edge of his vision. World shrinking to a small point of light, Jesse’s sole desire is to steal one more breath.

Hanzo lets go.

McCree lurches forward, rubbing his burning throat. He could care less about nearly suffocating, or that the man that did so is still lurking behind him, still armed -- air is all that matters.

The thief throws the cords aside. “In _my_ line of business,” he seethes, stepping around the hacker, “Hearts get one killed.”

_Moron_ , Jesse muses, _Yer dealin’ with a_ pro _here. An_ angry _one. What’s stopping him from shooting you with your own gun and leaving with all your computers?_ “That’s a strange way to say _greed_ ,” he croaks, “Runnin’ pipelines through the jungles, chargin’ hundreds of credits fer lifesavin’ pills, makin’ gadgets that work fer five days before breakin’ ‘n forcin’ ya to buy another...” He shakes his head. Talk is painful, but if he is going to die, may as well speak. “Look. I’m small-time. Don’t have the manpower to overthrow governments. But don’t call me naive. All it takes is a newspaper service to start formin’ a long game.” He thumbs at his tablet, sitting on the kitchen counter. “Gimme that.”

Hanzo, arms folded, inspects him like a dying bug. Lets him write a bit longer while he retrieves the device and gives it to McCree, who unlocks it and holds up the screen. It shows a series of candid pictures, grayscale, and Shimada flips through them.

“First Bank of the Lake’s biggest investors,” Jesse explains, “They’re all part of a special club. Call themselves gourmets. When yer chowin’ down on ribs from the last gray wolf...nah, you ain’t nothin’ of the sort. Yer just part of the decay.”

The thief is quiet. McCree is too anxious to move. Arched in a half-crouch, neck still aching, he watches the slow tumble of thoughts move across Hanzo’s face. Hard to believe the man has ever smiled, let alone given him access to his body. He is mercury.

Finally, he sighs, pushes the tablet away. “Your type are ants trying to move a mountain. You may bite and chew, yet your actions do nothing to the global machine. However--” He lifts a hand, interrupting Jesse. “--ants work the best in a group.”

For the first time this morning, McCree catches his breath. “Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna make you move to the forest ‘n wear green tights.”

“Good. For my services require compensation.” Hanzo rubs two fingers together. “Half the cut. Nothing less.”

“Half!? If I’m an ant, yer cuttin’ my teeth off!”

“My dragons are your jaws,” he explains, slowly, a scowl starting to gather. “You have prowess. I have vision. You want to be big-time? Follow my lead. I shall make us rich, and you shall satisfy your activism fetish.”

“It ain’t a fetish. I believe in what I do.”

“Then do we have a deal?”

The hacker stares at his offered hand. Half the heist going into a near-stranger’s coffers in exchange for juicier, more important targets. Five million now. Unknowns in the future. Yet Jesse has his long game, his computers, and an extra mind to plot and scheme. Ants and dragons, wolves and the world.

He shakes Hanzo’s hand. “Deal. Don’t choke me again.”

Shimada cocks his head. “But you look good in bruises.”

“Darlin’, save that stuff till I’ve had some fuckin’ coffee.”

\- - -

The empire starts small. Based out of McCree’s apartment, the initial heists are quick, guerilla affairs. Corrupt board members. Economic bullies. Poachers, smugglers, and crooks. In and out. No bodies, no witnesses.

In time, Jesse comes to accept Hanzo’s demand. Appreciate it, in fact. Though there are clothes and gadgets purchased with stolen money and identities -- and the thief has _expensive_ taste: a penchant for designer labels, five-star restaurants, statement pieces -- he isn’t stupid. Much of his cut goes directly back to McCree.

Who upgrades. The original three monitors are replaced with higher quality models. A fourth joins the array. Jesse replaces the horses with a panorama of the Grand Canyon. CPUs become faster. Home security tightens. And though he keeps it as subtle as he can, he looks at his war table and doesn’t see a clueless rebel’s child toys. A sofa-sized brain shares his home now.

Their home.

Hanzo has not slept on the couch since the night he arrived. What was once the claim of poor sleeping when not in a bed has evolved into cuddles. A territorial dispute morphed into mutual benefit. Shimada is comfortable. Jesse pulls up articles about enormous anonymous donations to nonprofits in the mornings and is treated to a shoulder-ful of smiling thief.

Cash flows, and strangulation attempts feel more like lovers’ spats.

“How big can we go, darlin’?”

Hanzo looks perfectly ruffled, hair spilling across the pillow, sunlight striping his arm. “What do you have in mind?”

Jesse leans his head on his hand, smirking. “Let’s take it to the next level. Steal gold in Venice. Forged antiques in Costa Rica. Save some snails in Paris.”

“Your long game is strictly domestic.”

The hacker shrugs. “I got a few tips fer expandin’ business on an international scale.”

“Such as?”

“Havin’ a real damn talented partner, whose ruthlessness is only matched by how pretty he is, who blows ya outta the water every time he moves a muscle. A guy who makes ya wonder how ya got by in the first place. Someone ya think ya can’t do without.”

Hanzo smiles, gets out of bed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” He takes the kiss McCree blows to him into the shower.

When he comes out, the bedroom is gone. Instead, cast on the walls from a central projector, is the Champ de Mars at night, lawns sparkling emerald from rows of neon lamps. The Eiffel Tower reaches for the stars behind him, rising over the bathroom door. People with their loved ones wander around him, oblivious.

Jesse kneels in front of him, a little box in his hand. The ring inside is topped with a gleaming diamond. “There ain’t no place I want to be ‘cept by yer side, darlin’,” he says.

Shimada struggles to find his voice, fails, settles instead for swallowing the hot lump in his throat and holding McCree’s hands. “We go big time.”

\- - -

They are wed on the red rocks of Arizona, blessed by the sunset, witnessed by the sky.

\- - -

“First thing I do when ya get home is get ya outta those clothes.”

Hanzo sips his martini, the liquid clear as glass. He can’t respond to the cowboy nestled deep in his ear, nor does he risk looking at the security camera scanning the ballroom. His lack of acknowledgement is in itself his opinion on husbands who cannot keep their mouths shut on important business.

The Zaryanov household is decked to the gills for a party. White marble, white lace, white snow. A hive of rich and powerful elite drift by in schools of silk and gentle laughter. The only dour faces belong to the private security, bulletproof vests and automatic weapons hidden under three-piece suits.

“The _montsuki_ ya wore was gorgeous, but a tux is a classic, y’know? Just wish it was on the floor instead.”

Not even an eyebrow twitch.

Watching from a hotel room nearby, Jesse laughs. “Yer in the clear, honey. Get a move on.”

Setting the drink down, Hanzo crosses the floor with shark-like grace. McCree flits from camera to camera, following him, admiring how well he blends into the crowd. He doesn’t have to sit on a stolen fortune to look like money. He oozes charisma, bright enough to rest on the shelf with the other billionaires, cold enough to tell them he isn’t interested in small talk. He bypasses the bathroom and slips into a door Jesse helpfully unlocks for him.

The Zaryanov family, its roots deep in Cold War politics, has evolved through decades to distinctive power. Mini-oligarchs, the few sports teams they do not own are bribed into profitable losses. The rest are treated to doses of steroids and hefty body mods: reinforced bones, titanium-laced muscles, microscopic targeting systems in corneas. They are ringleaders in a circus of unethical greed, and none hold the whip tighter than the matriarch’s daughter, Aleksandra.

All it takes is a handful of transaction recordings leaked to the public to blow their operation sky high.

McCree guides Hanzo to the heart of the mansion. The server room is ice cold and dark as pitch, the only lights the blinking LEDs in the numerous consoles. “Target’s in the second to last row, second from the bottom. Guess what I’m gonna do to _yer_ bottom when we’re done.”

“I can imagine,” Shimada finally deadpans, voice barely a murmur as he kneels. “Big time has gone to your head.”

“Is it so bad that I got a crazy good husband I can’t get enough of?”

“Big time has gone to your head. It has done nothing for your penis.”

Jesse gawps at his tablet. “Ya don’t _mean_ that, do you?”

Hanzo’s face slams into the consoles. It’s so fast and brutal McCree cannot react, reduced to a slack-jawed bystander. He stares as a hand clutches the thief’s ponytail and yanks, throwing him to the ground.

Aleksandra Zaryanova smiles. “ _Privet_ , little mouse!”

Hanzo scrambles to his feet. A server has left a long, leaking gash over his eye. He says nothing, raises his fists.

Aleksandra chuckles, hands on her hips. “Really? You want to fight me? I bench press _two_ of you without breaking sweat. Come then, little mouse. Party is boring anyway.”

What happens next, in Jesse’s expert opinion, is a beat down. Hanzo is an accomplished martial artist, crumpling blows delivered to his opponent’s ill-guarded nerves, but she has one hundred pounds on him. His palms may as well be striking a brick wall. She catches his ankle as he kicks for her head, flips him off-balance, dives on his prone form -- one last punch leaves him down for the count.

She stands up, brushes dust off her suit, and shoots a jaunty salute at the security camera.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” McCree says. Trance broken, heart pounding, he flies to his feet at the sound of heavy boots tromping up the hotel hallway. He runs to a window. The latch will not budge. “Shit shit shit _shit shit_ \--”

The door bursts open, and a flock of black-clad soldiers surge in. One grabs the hacker’s arm before he can smash his tablet against the wall. Another stuffs his head into a dark hood.

There is a prick on his arm. Then nothing.

\- - -

“Wake up.”

A hand pats his cheek. Jesse slowly stirs, head swimming. A woman in her sixties, skin dark, hair white, a tattoo dangling under her eye, offers him a plastic cup of water. He almost takes it, catches sight of his sleeve. His clothes have been replaced with a blank shirt and gray pants. Prison garb.

He retrieves his hand.

The woman shrugs slightly -- _your funeral_ , her pose says -- and crooks two fingers at him. “Follow me.”

With no other option, McCree does. She leads him out of a cell through a labyrinth of gunmetal corridors. The only other people they pass wear black and carry rifles.

The sinking feeling in his gut ascends only a tiny amount at the sight of his husband. Escorted by his own armed guard -- a monster of a man, nearly seven feet tall, roped with muscle, a large scar over a blind eye -- Hanzo cautiously meets Jesse’s look. As they are drawn deeper, the hacker’s heart pangs, fingers twitching to hold his hand. Shimada drops his gaze to the floor. Now is not the time for sentimentality.

_I’ve never seen you this scared before_ , McCree muses, _You don’t think we’ll never touch again, right?_

Their journey finally ends in front of an enormous screen. The old woman and the scarred man block the door. Beneath their feet, the floor vibrates -- gently at first, then building, sending tremors up their legs. The walls roar a deep rumble, unseen machinery waking up. It is an angry, powerful sound, a locomotive with a thirst for blood.

The screen flashes to life, radiation green. Outlined in the sharp glow is barely a face. Vaguely human, its single long eye bathes the room in light. A pair of hands, jointed, fingers ending in abrupt points, emerge from the background, dwarfing the screen.

Hanzo’s breath catches.

“Hello, brother,” the face says.

Hanzo forces himself to speak, fists balled. “Genji,” he mumurs, “Where are we?”

“You are in my greatest accomplishment,” Genji replies, ghostly hands spread wide. “Every transaction, every treaty, every treatment -- they are mine. My reach has no limit. My vision is unparalleled. I am in every computer, phone, and tablet in circulation, and I grow stronger every day. You, brother, are looking at the only true power on the planet. I am Overwatch.”

“That’s a myth!” Jesse’s head buzzes. Brother? Accomplishment? It’s in his best interest not to scold a being that seems barely contained by a plastic screen, yet the words spurted out, so fuck it, may as well continue. “Overwatch’s a crackpot theory, like Atlantis and the Illuminati. There ain’t no way a single...whatever you are can control everything on Earth!”

Genji looks at him. The being has no eyes, but McCree tries not to shiver. He wants nothing more than to reach for Hanzo.

“I have disciples,” Genji says, “Ones who have seen my way as the only path to the future.”

Jesse glances at the wound over his husband’s eye. Dried blood still clings to his skin.

“I have witnessed your skills, Jesse McCree,” Genji continues, “You will be made the latest member in my cause. And _you_ , Hanzo... _ryujin no ken o kurae_.”

Hanzo puts on a brave face, which crumbles after only a handful of seconds. Eyes scrunched, lips pulled back in a grimace, he locks down his muscles, fists balling against the fire coating his left arm. As it grows into an inferno, he barks a cry, clutching his shoulder. His skin glows beneath his sleeve as he is eaten from within by plasma teeth.

“Only a Shimada can control the dragons,” Genji titters.

“Dying has not improved your mental health,” Hanzo hisses. Jesse moves to comfort him. He beats him back with a glare. “You went too far. You brought dishonor to our family. You packed _children_ into _shipping containers_ , no food, no water, for _profit_!”

“And through your actions, I have changed the world!” The eye leans in close, filling the room with cancerous emerald. “Yes, brother. If you had not killed me, none of this would have come to pass. Now the entire world is my slave.” It backs away, still sinister bright. “Since your heart goes out to those children so much, you shall feel what it is like to be one. Take them away!”

The hulking man takes McCree by the arms. The hacker may as well struggle against iron bars. Kicking and dragging his feet, Jesse stares wide-eyed at Hanzo. “Darlin’!”

Shimada cringes in fresh pain. A door slides shut behind them, and he is gone.

\- - -

_All right_ , McCree thinks, _What would yer handsome husband do?_

The giant left him in a holding cell. Alone with just a cot, the hacker sits with his head in his hands. Granted, his life as a professional criminal is often exciting, but this goes beyond fun and games. His better half is being tortured somewhere in a maze of identical corridors by an in-law he didn’t know he had. Being roasted from the inside.

_No. Now’s not the time to panic. Yer the brains of the operation...going up against another brain. A very large, globe-spannin’ brain. No! Now’s not the time to...to..._

Deep breath. Start from the top and think.

Something that claims to control every government and economy on Earth had to exist somewhere large. Someplace constructed to be safe and secure. Something hard to notice, since Overwatch had, so far, existed as a myth. That leads Jesse to believe they are in an old place. And perhaps Genji’s acolytes had upgraded certain things, but there was one thing not high on an evil overlord’s list.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon--”

Offering a prayer to the gods of hacking, he looks under the cot.

And there is a grate, built in a wall made concurrently with action movie tropes.

“I’m comin’ fer ya, Hanzo,” McCree murmurs.

A small problem with his plan, he realizes as he crawls through the tiny duct, is that he is the brains for a reason. His husband is far fitter than he. Jesse regrets every taco bowl he’s ever eaten, creeping on his elbows, focusing on the route ahead. All it takes is one wayward bump to alert a guard. A guard with a gun. A gun with bullets that would turn him to Swiss cheese. That’s the panic talking again. He swallows it, urging himself to inch forward just a little more, just a little closer to Hanzo.

Light stripes the duct ahead. McCree wriggles toward it, cautious of his every breath. He chances a peek into the room on the other side--

It’s some sort of kitchen. Sitting at the table -- dwarfing it -- is the massive guard. He is sound asleep, his snores a bear’s bellows. Lying on the floor beneath his ham-sized hand is a tablet.

Jesse shivers. He can just eke a fingertip out of the grate, touch a corner of the tablet. If he awakens the guard, a gun won’t be necessary. He will have no trouble smashing the wall down and crushing him like a snail in its shell. McCree doesn’t doubt that for a second.

But he has to try. A tablet in his hands is a stronger weapon than any firearm.

Cramming his fingers past the grate, wincing as sharp metal bites into his flesh, he slowly teases the tablet closer with ghosts of touch. Sweat beads on his temple as he coaxes it vertical. On his side, feeling like a canned sardine, he scoots it closer. Closer.

It’s in his hands. The guard did not so much as stir.

_Upgrade yer hardware_ , Jesse thinks, and crawls out of the light.

The tablet is strange. It’s a model he’s never seen before. Yet omnipotent AIs, especially ones that were once human, do not spontaneously appear. Whoever made Genji must have included a backdoor. It can be as small as a single line of code. That’s all he needs.

As he bypasses the bio-sensors and flicks through commands, his gorge rises. Genji is too busy torturing his husband to pay attention to him. _That sonuva bitch--_

McCree almost misses it. The backdoor is tiny. No diagnostic tool would be that small. No, it was a secret made in fear. Yet whoever put it in place, whoever designed Genji, was still defiant enough to mark it with a minuscule decal: two wings and a halo.

_Thanks, angel_ , Jesse muses.

He considers his options. There aren’t many. What he does know is that he has to keep moving. They could find his empty cell at any moment.

His cramped journey begins again.

\- - -

Hanzo cannot feel his arm, though when he looks at his twitching palm, at least it is still attached. He smells cooked meat and knows it’s himself. Barbecued dragon.

The chamber is dark as the grave and just as silent. The thief keeps his breath steady, his eyes closed. He will not give his brother the satisfaction of a breakdown. “Just kill me,” he grumbles, “Save your CPU some cycles.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Genji’s voice is everywhere and nowhere. “You left me for dead. I am showing you mercy. I could drive a sword through your back as well.”

“You are _burning me alive_.”

He can’t breathe. There’s a toad in his throat, a big one made of billions of nanites. Hanzo holds onto his last breath as long as he can -- but then it is not enough. He claws at his neck though it does him no good. He’s sinking, the blackness flooding up, drowning him--

Genji lets go. Hanzo gasps for air, eyes wet.

“How many times must I do that before you beg, dear brother?” the AI muses, “Before you plead for forgiveness? I am inside you, I am your defenses. I can draw the dragons into your brain and turn your entire being into my rag doll. I can blind you. I can scream in your ears without end. Do you treasure your memories? I can rip them apart. You will forget our father, our home. Your husband.”

“ _FUCK THAT!_ ”

Jesse’s arrival is less than graceful. Hanzo hears metal clattering to the floor, a heavy weight following after. Footsteps, a loud thump as the hacker collides with Shimada’s confining wall. A low “Jeez, nearly pissed myself--”

The lights flash on. McCree’s immediate concern is Hanzo’s arm, skin blackened from shoulder to wrist. He presses a hand to the hard light wall separating them, heart leaping as the thief does the same. “Darlin’--”

_BWAAAMP, BWAAAMP, BWAAAMP_. The alarm is deafening, yet Genji’s voice thunders over it. “Finally, ingenuity! You would have made an excellent member of Overwatch, but now you shall die like a rat.”

Hanzo bangs on the glass, scowling. He flips his hand over, palm facing in. “Take a picture! It shall last longer!”

Take a -- what--? Jesse and Hanzo lock eyes. McCree swallows -- he does not want to look frightened now, not when guards are coming to gun him down, not for the last time his husband sees him--

The wedding ring. Its diamond crown.

Jesse lifts the tablet’s camera. “Say cheese.”

_Click_! A deluge of data, packed into the vertices and lines of the stone, cascades into the tablet, overwhelming the screen. McCree recognizes the code. It’s identical to the program on a drive from Japan.

He plugs it in to the backdoor and bids it run as fast as it can.

Genji grunts. “What -- _nannnNNNNN_ \--” His voice warps higher and higher as he is siphoned away, wrenched from his databases like a clam from its shell, until it is an ear-splitting shriek, a computer’s dying scream. Then it drops lower, lower still, the drag of nails through virtual dirt. Then there is nothing. Even the alarm stops.

The tablet screen turns black.

The wall fades. Hanzo stands, and Jesse rises with him.

“Is he--” Shimada asks, eyes wide, “--in there?”

McCree holds the device like a jar of explosive, a vial of Ebola. “Yeah. Yeah, I think--”

Hanzo grabs the tablet, throws it to the ground, and stomps it. The screen shatters beneath his heel. He drops his foot until the tablet cracks and sparks. Only then does he release a long, heavy breath, shoveling hair out of his face.

And the ceiling collapses.

Not onto them, thankfully, though the hall leading to the torture chamber is filled with dust, debris, and a spunky brunette Jesse doubts is over twenty years old. She cracks a playful grin and spins a pair of pistols in her palms. “Cheers, love,” she chirps, “The calvary’s here!” She speeds away, off to meet the guards still on their way.

_She sold me our wedding rings_ , Jesse notes.

A man jumps down the hole next. He wears a black jacket, a beanie, and heavy combat boots. His face is raked with scars. McCree’s old mentor looks at the couple, an eyebrow quirked. “Hey, kid. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? And you, agent, let’s get some triage for that arm.”

Hanzo goes to him and gingerly scales the ladder dropped down the hole. “Your bride’s getting away from you,” Gabriel Reyes says, “Coming?”

Jesse has had too much excitement for one lifetime. Emotionally paralyzed, he obeys.

\- - -

It turns out Overwatch was established in the bowels of an abandoned Soviet base hidden under the cliffs of the Black Sea coast. With the heart of the organization smashed to pieces, it’s only a matter of dragging the rest of the criminal body out. A small town nearby has been commandeered for the necropsy.

_The residents had no idea they were sittin’ on the devil_ , McCree thinks. He’s found shelter in a cafe. By himself, he smokes a cigar Gabriel brought him and stares out at the waves.

He isn’t alone for long. He can tell it’s Hanzo before he sees him. The thief sits beside him, his left arm wrapped in thick, white gauze. “Are you well?”

Jesse jabs the smoke into an ashray hard enough to scrape it against the table. “What do ya think? I learned the world was controlled by an AI, my former teacher’s been watchin’ my every action for years, and the guy I trusted enough to pledge my life to is a spy for the United Nations. No, Hanzo, I’m not fuckin’ well. I’m surrounded by sick fucks who use people like pawns -- present company included.”

Shimada scowls, good hand curling into a fist. “Do you believe I took pleasure in killing my brother? He was too dangerous to allow to live, but he was still my sibling. We laughed together, played together, grew together. Yet somewhere in his life he lost his empathy. He changed into a vile thing. So I had no choice.”

“And when patterns on the global stage started croppin’ up, Talon recruited ya.”

The code name for a top secret UN-backed operation created to infiltrate and capsize Overwatch. Gabriel explained it all to him.

“For my prowess at theft.” Hanzo sighs, face softening. “Jesse, my intentions were a lie, but all else is true. Shimada Hanzo is my name. I have been a professional criminal my entire life.”

McCree turns to face him, red with fury. “Y’used me as bait to get inside Overwatch. I coulda died!”

The spy clutches his hand, gives it an earnest squeeze. The sunrise glows in his eyes. “I would not have allowed the man I love above all else to perish. The oaths I swore on our wedding day were no Talon-sanctioned plan. _I wanted to marry you_. It was the happiest I have ever been. I am happy now, knowing you are alive. Although...” Hanzo leans back in his chair, looking away. “I am afraid. You have every right to be angry. If you choose to leave me, I will not stop you.”

_Pathetic_ , sneers a voice in his head, _When did your heart turn to glass? The mission was a success. Your efforts have made you rich. Start over from the beginning._

For a long while, they are silent.

“What’re ya gonna do now?”

Hanzo peers up from the floor. “I do not know.”

“Me neither.” Jesse holds his hand. “Let’s find out.”


End file.
